Last night I was writing about you,
softly tracing curlicues of hair
with my pencil.
Clutching at the punctuation of your pores.

The commas of your ears,
pauses on either side
as I tried to learn the grammar of your tongue.

Or memorise the "O"
of your navel,
to print it on the page

                              Beside your hips,
                              smalled to brackets
                              I fit between, so perfectly.

But I couldn't fence you in with lines or letters;
you broke through the margin.
Your heart an exclamation mark
too bold for any sentence.